


O Children

by TheLoonyMoony



Series: Love itself shall slumber on [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, M/M, Marauders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 11:50:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2620706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLoonyMoony/pseuds/TheLoonyMoony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>December, 1980.</p><p>"Happy Ending" is an oxymoron.</p>
            </blockquote>





	O Children

**Author's Note:**

> Title and lyrics from the song "O Children" by Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds.  
> Series name inspired from (uh, copied straight off of) Music, when Soft Voices Die by the inimitable P. B. Shelley.

** Part 1: Sirius Black **

December, 1980.

_“Pass me that lovely little gun_

_My dear, my darling one.”_

That song Moony likes is playing on the muggle radio. The second-hand radio which has been their companion ever since fourth year, when Moony decided that they needed some form of cultural intervention in their lives and that Sirius’ raucous shrieks along the lines of “God rest ye, merry hippogriffs” hardly counted. The same radio that blared out “Get Happy” early one morning in their fifth year as Peter shimmied his rather generous arse, toothbrush in mouth, while James tried to smother his own ears with a pillow and yelled incoherently about beauty sleep. The radio that was also present the Christmas of their sixth year – Glenn Miller's “Polka Dots and Moonbeams” playing discreetly from the background – as Remus hurried into their dormitory, teeth chattering, hands freezing, when Sirius stepped up (his face a mask of fuck-it-I’m-doing-this-and-damn-the-consequences), kissed him and murmured, “Still cold, Moony?” and Remus blushed. The radio that was rather cornily crooning “All You Need is Love” one evening in their seventh year as Sirius burst into the Gryffindor common room, his excited chatter about the perfect place for dungbombs dying on his lips as he found himself confronted with the sounds of face-sucking and the sight of Lily Evans straddling James on the armchair by the fire, and ran away with a cry of “MY EYES!”

 

_“But my EYES, Moony!” howled Sirius, rather dramatically, flopping down beside Remus on the grass by the Black Lake._

_“Do try and take it like a grown-up, Sirius,” Remus responded, engrossed in the pages of Moste Potente Potions._

_Sirius pouted and looked like he intended to do the exact opposite of that._

_“And in the COMMON ROOM too! Such blatant misbehaviour in public areas and disregard for school rules! Oh, how it shames me!”_

_Remus turned to momentarily look at the outraged disinherited aristocrat and raised one sardonic eyebrow, “As delightful as it is to see you, of all people, be so bothered by the breaking of rules, I’d rather read this and try not to explode another cauldron in Slughorn’s face.”_

_“Cauldron shmauldron. Who cares about Potions anyway? Except Snivellus. And She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named-But-Is-A-Redheaded-Monster-Who-Does-Unspeakable-Things-To-Our-Prongs.”_

_“Mm.”_

_“Moony!” Accompanied by a pout and an attempted poke to the belly that is expertly (albeit distractedly) batted away by the Moony in question._

_“Mooooooooony!” tried Sirius again, this time accompanied by a veritable volley of pokes aimed most skilfully at the most ticklish spots._

_Remus sighs the sigh of a world-weary person who knows well the futility of attempting to study in the presence of the Herculean and hurricane-like force of commotion that is Sirius Orion Black. The pages of the book flutter shut as Remus turns his full attention – finally! – on Sirius._

_“Aren’t you at least glad that this means the days of horrible planning for_ _wooing –“_

_“Wooing? Merlin, Moony, travelled back to the 17 th century, have we?”_

_“– WOOING Lily with pink glitter and questionable flora are over? Not to mention the day James massacred Shelley – “_

_“Yeah and you cried yourself to sleep that night –“_

_“Did NOT!”_

_“Did too! Besides, I’m not sure which Prongs I prefer. On one hand, the Moaning Myrtle that he used to be, writing sodding poems about freckles and green eyes and in return getting kicked in the bollocks by Evans; on the other hand, the Prongs that slurps face with Evans and writes poems about THAT. Which is totally unnecessary, given that he gives us a live demonstration of the snogging anyway!”_

_A slight smile hovers around the corner of Remus’ mouth, “You do remember that he’s had an eyeful of US snogging as well, right Padfoot?”_

 

Always the sensible, reasonable one, that’s their Moony, thinks Sirius with a wry smile. Is that it, then? Is it _reasonable_ right now to act like a shadowy fucking stranger when there are already rumours of a spy going around? There’s a painful clench somewhere in the vicinity of Sirius’ chest. No, never. Not their Moony. Not his Moony.

 

Meanwhile the radio carries on mournfully:

_“They're mopping up the butcher's floor_

_Of your broken little heart._

_O children_

_Forgive us now for what we've done,_

_It started out as a bit of fun.”_

 

Something about adults apologising for screwing up the younger generation with shit like wars and such. Isn’t that what Remus said the song meant?

 

Sirius sighs. The War. Always at the back of his mind. Gnawing away at what little sanity he has left. And God, is he tired! Tired of waking up to headlines of more mysterious disappearances, more dark marks cropping up over the houses of muggleborns every day. Tired of hunting for news – any news – of Regulus, his idiot of a baby brother, also mysteriously vanished. Tired of watching helplessly as suspected Death Eaters escape Ministry clutches because of lack of fucking _proof,_ as if the dark marks on their arms aren’t proof enough. Tired of worrying over his godson, which in itself is a surprisingly huge deal, given that the godson in question is tinier than most of Remus’ books. And tired of Remus. Wide-eyed, open, trusting, trusted Remus, with the sudden surprising knack for finding the _worst_ timing on _Earth_ to start acting all enigmatic and furtive. Remus, who went on some cryptic “mission” two whole days ago, promising to return by nightfall that same day, but who has neither turned up nor deigned to send one pathetic owl to at least reassure Sirius that he is okay, IF he is at all in fact okay; Remus who never breaks a promise. _I guess he does now_ , a sneaky little voice somewhere within the dark recesses of Sirius’ mind piped up, and he quashed it with all his considerable might. Sirius is tired, and angry. Angry with himself for even entertaining the notion that it is Remus who is helping the Dark side and jeopardising everything that Sirius holds dear, everything that is still left that matters. Angry for doubting Remus, doubting things that should have been unquestionable after ten years of knowing Remus and three years of living with him. And angry with Remus for not making this easier.

This was going to be a long night. Nick Cave was still begging,

_“O children_

_Forgive us now for what we've done.”_

The sudden sound of a key turning in the lock of the entrance to their tiny flat pulled Sirius out of his morbid thoughts. _Constant vigilance!_ a Moody-like voice growled in his head as he picked his wand up and warily approached the door. Of course, it could be Remus, he has the spare key.  But two days, 48 hours, of jumping at every slight noise and rushing to greet Moony -- and the consequent disappointment as he realised that it wasn’t him, but just the wind, or an owl with a copy of the Daily Prophet -- had made him slightly pessimistic about his appearance. And so it was, that despite all logic, all hope, it was indeed Remus Lupin who walked in that door at the dead of night, and suddenly the night seemed brighter than Sirius Black’s day had been. If only for a little while.

 

“You are late, you know,” Sirius struggled unsuccessfully to keep the petulance out of his voice, “you said you’d be back that day itself.”

 

“I thought so, Pads,” Remus shrugged out of his coat, “but you know how unpredictable Dumbledore’s tasks are.”

 

“Do I?”

 

Remus looked up at the curt tone, “Anything you’re trying to say here, Padfoot?”

 

Remus padded up to the couch and dropped onto it in a heap of exhaustion. Only then did Sirius notice the dark circles under his eyes, the bedraggled state of his hair, the way he seemed to have grown even thinner in the last couple of days.

 

“Fuck, Moony! Whatever have you been up to? You look a mess!”

 

“Not exactly a cakewalk, all this Order business. You know I can’t tell you any more than that. Let’s just say that the world outside is not as terribly taken in by a scruffy werewolf as you are.”

 

And then he smiled. That particular smile that means Remus is visibly worn out, but never too worn out to indulge Sirius in a smile that says all the things he can’t actually speak out loud, that he isn’t allowed to; the smile that apologises for it, that envelopes him in its warmth and obvious affection. A burst of brightness chases the night away one more time. Blinding, eye-opening.

 

Sirius gets up to bring him some tea and leftover pasta, all the while prattling on about all the insignificant things Remus has missed the last few days, Remus tiredly grunting a _hmm_ or an _ah_ every now and then.

 

“Dearborn has gone missing, did you hear?” Remus begins, somewhat energised after the meal.

 

“Merlin...”

 

“You knew him a little, didn’t you? I wasn’t very familiar with him, to be honest, apart from the occasional Order meeting.”

 

“Caradoc. He...we...James and I played him in that match against Hufflepuff that we lost. Quidditch. Seventh year, remember?” Sirius dropped his head into his hands.

 

“Oh, Padfoot,” Remus got up and kneeled at the foot of Sirius’ chair, placed his hand lightly on Sirius’ head, “It’s...I don’t know how to say that it’s going to be okay, but – “

 

“How long ‘til you reckon it’s one of us?”

 

“Padfoot. That’s not – “

 

Sirius raised his head, “And don’t say that it’s not going to happen. Just...how long do we have left before it _does_?”

 

And Remus doesn’t have an answer to that either. Sirius wants to yell and break something. What is the use of bloody Remus’ reading bloody billions of mind-numbing, stupid books then, if he can’t solve all the world’s problems? Weren’t these supposed to be the _easy_ questions with the _obvious_ answers? Weren’t they supposed to live on forever and never age and never die and never have to _think_ _mature thoughts?_ They are the Marauders, some of the best of the lot, and just _twenty_ years old for crying out loud! When did they transition from grubby children to reluctant adults AND NOT EVEN NOTICE?

 

Remus wants, desperately, to have something calming and wise to say. He watches as Sirius looks on helplessly, all wide eyes and expectant ears, waiting to be coddled with assurances, and for once in his life, Remus has none to offer. He is -- a part of Sirius’ mind registers hazily -- just as young, and just as lost. And Sirius, on the other hand, is part confused, part crazed, and all petrified. The moment of silence stretches on, pregnant and painful, till Sirius breaks it.

 

“There’s a spy in the Order.”

 

“What!” Remus starts.

 

“A spy. One of us, apparently. Someone close enough to the Potters,” Sirius tries, really he does, to keep the suspicious inflection out of his tone, and fails.

 

Remus visibly flinches, but manages to grate out evenly, “Someone who is perhaps a Dark Creature?”

 

“That's...not what I...not _why_...it...it’s not...”

 

“Oh, isn’t it, though?” Remus stands up in one swift motion, his voice unsteady with rage, “You can’t even SPEAK the word, Sirius! SAY IT. WEREWOLF! The WEREWOLF who must OBVIOUSLY be the SPY because WHO ELSE can even DARE compete with the Darkness that HE HAS?”

 

His voice is higher than either of them remembers it ever having been. Sirius is only used to calm, unruffled reprimands from Remus -- the quirk of a brow, the set of his mouth, the ruffle of the morning newspaper. Because Remus doesn’t yell; not when James set fire to the Slytherin banners in the Great Hall and cost them about a million House points, not even the time Sirius thought it would be a good idea to send Snape off to the Whomping Willow during a full moon. There’s a moment of shocked quiet, then Sirius decides to disregard the warning in Remus’ tone and clenched fists and barrels on, “Well nothing else makes any SENSE! You disappear for days with NO explanation. What could Dumbledore possibly consider such a HUGE FUCKING SECRET? I’m in the Order too, aren’t I? For Merlin’s sake, Remus – “

 

“I work my ARSE off like a bloody – a bloody house elf and to come back HOME to THIS?”

 

The night creeps up on Sirius, converges in all around from all directions, a formidable force that threatens to overpower, engulf. He reaches out with his hands, to shove at Remus, or to break his face, or shut his raging mouth closed, Sirius has no idea which exactly. His hands find the collar of Remus’ shirt and entangle in it. He pulls Remus towards him and staggers backwards on the couch himself. Somehow the will to shout any more goes out of them; Sirius is pressed back on the couch and Remus is messily straddling him, and for one blessed instant, nothing else matters. Then he looks up at Remus’ face and recognises the pure bitterness that has replaced the warm chocolate of his eyes, even as he winds his hands in Sirius’ hair viciously, pulling back his head and descending on his mouth. Lips meet, teeth clash, tongues dance against one another in violent vengeance; someone bares his neck in deference, someone else moans his surrender too.

 

Sirius has never had a knack for conversational eloquence, for debating a point; the only way he has ever been able to express himself in a tricky situation is by pouncing bodily into it; a nudge here to signal this, a caress just there to suggest that. It’s the only way he has ever solved a problem, it’s the only way he knows _how_. So this is exactly what he does. If he closed his eyes and lost himself in Remus for the moment, he can almost pretend that everything is indeed okay.

 

 

_“O children_

_We have the answer to all your fears._

_It's short, it's simple, it's crystal clear,_

_It's round about, it's somewhere here_

_Lost amongst our winnings._

_O children_

_Lift up your voice, lift up your voice.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Hope to add at least three more parts to the series.


End file.
